


after the gold rush

by sleeplessandcynical



Series: things that lie behind (Suplex City!AU) [1]
Category: Professional Wrestling, World Wrestling Entertainment
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Childhood, Gen, Gender Identity, I'm just a nerd okay, Orphans, PG13 but lots of swearing, Wrestle AU: Suplex City, cameos cameos everywhere, dad jokes, everyone involved in this is hopeless, librarian!Chyna
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-30
Updated: 2018-01-30
Packaged: 2019-03-09 11:33:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,065
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13480635
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sleeplessandcynical/pseuds/sleeplessandcynical
Summary: moments here and there from the life of baby Seven. everything might be on fire, but she's got one very huge guardian angel(?).(Thanks again a million times over to concussed_to_pieces for this brilliant AU)





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realize this is a less supernatural version of Undertaker than is the norm; I wanted to portray him as someone who still has vestiges of humanity left, in a muscle-memory sort of way, but whose game-of-telephone reputation and longevity makes him bigger and scarier than he might actually be.

c. 1993

 _i was lying in a burned out basement_  
_with the full moon in my eyes_  
_i was hoping for replacement_  
_when the sun burst through the sky_  
_there was a band playing in my head_  
_and i felt like getting high_  
_i was thinking about what a friend had said_  
_i was hoping it was a lie_  
_thinking about what a friend had said  
_ _i was hoping it was a lie_

 

Not a single living person knows for sure what happened the first time Suplex City burned.

Well, maybe one. Although "person" might be a bit of a stretch. Everybody just calls him the Deadman, after all.

Technically, Bearer was there. It was, in fact, his crematorium. But Paul, for all his loyalty and wire-sharp intellect, was a little bit... excitable. When he insisted that he'd seen an actual fireball, one aimed directly at him by an impossibly huge figure that had somehow launched it and then left the scene unscathed, the police chief just let out a deep, resounding sigh and reached for his flask.

No matter how it started, the flames spread when a huge, high-pressure wave rolled over the southern part of the city, cratering the fire into something that more closely resembled a nuclear bomb. It hit a fuel tank for one of the factories a little ways over, and the resulting explosion showered huge chunks of flaming rubble for blocks, battering everything in sight.

The fire department was pretty sure he'd either done it himself for the attention and insurance money, or pissed off the wrong family. The explosion meant there was no evidence either way. Nothing left but burned-out warehouses and wrecked, long-empty tenements. Oh, and a couple of bodies.

Everyone just shrugged their shoulders and said, "At least it happened there." Not when it was busy. Not in a good neighborhood, if such a thing even existed. Not where _people_ lived. People who'd be missed.

* * *

 

Bearer is hiding under a rusted steel table, covering his ears, screaming in what feels like a pitch only discernible to mice. The Deadman groans. "Shut the fuck up, Paul. You're giving me a headache."

"M-m-my face," Bearer whimpers. "You s-sick bastard." Sure enough, his hair is on fire.

"You should probably get that looked at -" the Deadman begins, and then cocks his head. "What the fuck?"

There is a noise coming from upstairs. It sounds an awful lot like crying. The Deadman leaves the building as quickly as he'd come, sweeping around to find the source. He isn't really sure why it matters, but suddenly, it does. It hits him with a sickening realization: Bearer's part of the building, the ground and basement floors, are made of stone, but the upper level is occupied by a small wooden apartment building. Was. Now it's little more than flaming splinters.

A moment later, he's balanced carefully on the remaining beams. The crying stops immediately, but the coughing begins. He peers through the haze, just past a big smoldering unidentifiable chunk that had smashed through the front windows. Then he sees a face - small, closed-off, but undeniably terrified, all dark hair and round little cheeks.

_Well, shit._

"You okay?"

The kid just stares at him, and he can't blame them - he suddenly feels far, far, too tall, and takes off his hat to shove the mass of reddish-black hair away from his tired face. They're young - somewhere between six and ten, maybe? He isn't so good at that shit. Small, wide, dark eyes, soot-smeared face, stained t-shirt and jeans.

The Deadman thinks he might be in over his head.

"Not much of a talker. Me neither. Let's go." He reaches down to scoop the kid up, but they glare at him, and he finds himself leaning back with his hands up, chuckling. "Tough cookie. But you gotta come with me if you want to get out of here."

The kid coughs again, and the Deadman glances around. He doesn't personally need to worry much about this shit, but it's smoky as hell in there, and that can't be good on somebody so little. He holds his duster open, and they reluctantly tuck themselves against the outside of his leg. He uses his hat to fan the smoke away from their face, and takes another look around the room.

There's a couple of slumped bodies in the corner. Not moving, and not breathing. Looks like they'd fallen through the floor from upstairs.

_Now you've done it._

"Those your parents?" The Deadman feels ridiculous pulling out the lapel of his coat and muttering into it. He feels even more ridiculous at the relief when they shake their head _no_. "Did you know 'em?" Another shake.

"How'd you get here?"

They let out another cough, even more racking than before, and it occurs to the Deadman that maybe he should shut the fuck up and move. So he puts his hat back on and he _moves,_ shimmering in the leftover heat. The child gasps, and hugs his leg tightly, flinching when they set down on the rocky shore of the river. He opens his coat, looks down and realizes they're barefoot.

"Sorry, kid, but it ain't getting any softer in there." They make a small noise of protest when he picks them up but tolerate being set on his hip for the long walk into the dark.

There’s more people down here than there used to be, as desperation and hunger beat out fear, but the newest ones always stay in little packs near one entrance or another, still indulging their basic human craving for sunlight, for noise, for company, familiarity. The Deadman wonders sometimes what it feels like to _need_.

"You. Get over here." His deep voice, heavy with power, rolls over a small clump of sleepers. Several bolt, roachlike, but one remains: a smaller, wiry guy with long hair and exhaustion in his eyes. He stands on shaky knees and brushes the dirt and gravel from his pants, breath catching when he realizes the Deadman is staring him down.

Well, the Deadman, and one grouchy little kid.

"Y-yessir. Undertaker. Sir."

The Deadman pulls a small leather notebook from his jacket and pats himself down for a pen, holding everything in one hand so's not to upset the small one by setting them down again. Bracing the notebook on his thigh, he scrawls a quick note. Ash and blood smudge the page. He tears it out with the hand holding the child, moving them to the crook of his elbow, and repockets his belongings with the other. The kid pats at his hair like it’s a cat toy, and he fights back a smile.

"Go to the club. Tell Nash he owes me a favor." He folds the paper and shoves it into the underling's pocket. The guy stands, frozen, and the Deadman realizes the man's gaze is fixed on the child. He glares back, pale face glowing in the dim light. "Get the fuck outta my face, or you're next." Then, just for the hell of it, he rolls his eyes back in his head, snapping his teeth with a vicious sound.

The guy takes off like a shot. The kid laughs, and the Deadman even cracks a bit of a smile; that was more fun than it should have been. Undertaker shifts the kid to his other hip, and takes the long way home, walking slowly, giving them both plenty of time to adjust to the growing darkness. They tighten their tiny hands in his duster, and Taker gets a real weird feeling behind his ribs.

This part of the layout isn't that bad, once you get through the gates. The Deadman prides himself on that. All his food and supplies are kept in a locked, painfully organized bunker several side tunnels down. It takes more winding than that to reach where he lives - in a series of train cars that look like they'd been stolen from the Gatsby era. (They had.) Over time, and with a lot of help from a lot of sources, they've managed to tap into the city water and sewer lines, so while electricity is still touch and go, the whole place is a hell of a lot nicer than most of Suplex City's apartments. And there's no noisy neighbors. Most of the time.

He sets them down at a big wooden table and gets them a glass of water, then quietly just watches them drink it. It's fascinating; they need both hands to hold the glass up. They're a skinny little thing, equal parts bones and wiry muscle at an age where it feels like kids oughta be chubby and happy.

"You want something to eat? I can heat up some soup." They nod so enthusiastically that it makes him laugh. "Chicken noodle it is."

A couple hours later, the small person looks up in horror as an absolutely huge but surprisingly young-looking man strolls nonchalantly through the door, whistling and tossing a small duffel bag from hand to hand. He isn't any bigger than the Deadman, but he is strange, and loud, and moves very fast. They fall out of their chair and scramble backwards until they hit the wall. Silent tears roll down, streaking their ash-darkened face. The man cocks his head, sending a sheaf of dark brown hair over one shoulder, and slows his movements, setting the bag on the table. His face softens, and he actually sits down on the floor a few feet away. They relax noticeably, but still keep their fingers twisted tightly together. They don't, the Undertaker notices, wipe their face.

"Well hey there, youngun. The big bad man didn't even bother to hose you down before you got inside?"

"What took you so damn long?" The Deadman grumbles.

"Shit. Don't give me that. I was working. The Kliq ain't gonna take care of itself and neither was what you asked me for, what with everything being on fuckin' _fire_. So who the hell is this?"

"Dunno. They ain't said much. Found 'em in the house above Bearer's. No parents." He grimaces. "God, that's still a dumb name for a nightclub. No one will ever remember how to spell it."

"Shut up." Then Nash lowers his voice and directs his next question to the kid. "That right?" They nod, so he continues. "What were you doing up there by yourself?"

"Hiding."

The Deadman has been around for a very long time. Nothing surprises him anymore. That does nothing to explain why he almost jumps out of his skin at the sound of the little one's soft, smoke-hoarse voice.

Nash is laser-focused now, and dabs at their little face with a paper towel. "Yeah? From what?"

They flinch back and shake their head violently.

Nash hands them the paper towel, and they scour their face with it far too hard, leaving red marks behind. Undertaker holds out an open hand, slowly, and they reluctantly deposit the crumpled, dirty sheet in his palm.

While he's throwing it away, he hears Nash say, "What's your name, kid? How old are you?"

There's a long silence. When Undertaker turns back, the kid glances at them both, and shrugs before finally answering in a whisper.

"Seven."

"Yeah? Which one is that?" Undertaker asks, raising his eyebrows.

They shrug again.

Nash throws his head back and laughs. "Seven it is, then. Well listen, Sev, I brought you some hand-me-downs and some shoes. They might be a little big, because _somebody_ —” he shoots a glance at the Deadman, and the little one giggles, and the Undertaker's ribs start that aching thing again — "is really bad at guessing how small people are."

The bag contains an assorted variety of t-shirts, sweats, and even a few new packs of socks and underwear. A pair of slip-on sneakers and some jeans, all several sizes too large, complete the heap. Seven seems absolutely delighted, and as Nash sits back on his heels and watches, he finds himself wondering how damned long they've been in those same threadbare clothes.

"He didn't tell me whether you like boy clothes or girl clothes, Sev. I tried to keep it somewhere in the middle."

"I didn't know," Undertaker grumbles, getting up from his chair. "I ain't checkin', either."

Nash tilts his head and smirks. "Fair enough." Then he turns his face back to the kid. "Tell you what, Sev. We're gonna show you where the bathroom is, so you can get cleaned up and dressed." He scoops up the clothes, and jerks his head in the direction of the hallway.

Once the little one is settled and done experimenting with the taps — _jesus christ, kid, did they not have sinks wherever you're from? —_ the two men duck back outside.

"Walk with me," comes the low voice, and they take long strides, ducking under the occasional outcropping or rusted pipe.

Nash nods, and follows. "You gonna keep 'em?"

"Where else are they gonna go? With you? Or back to that mess?" Undertaker grits his teeth, and Nash thinks he smells sulfur.

"What, that mess _you_ created? Shit, man, I know fuck-all about kids and I'm already doing a better job." Nash knows he' s being a dick, but it's too good a chance to pass up.

"Fuck off, Diesel. You and your idiot friends would let them play in traffic the first time a hot piece of ass walked by."

"Aww, come on, bro. That's not... okay, that's probably dead-on." Nash grins. "You could always just put 'em back where you found 'em. They don't even have a name."

"It's Seven," the Deadman growls. His chest felt tight for some reason.

"What, you Mr. Mom now? You gonna homeschool 'em, get 'em a pony, teach 'em the birds and bees?"

Undertaker stops and leans against the wall. Nash isn't wrong. Being... whatever he is comes with certain perks and responsibilities, and kids were never either one of them. “It’s better than leaving them on their own,” he finally concludes, in a tone that Nash picks up on instantly.

“You so sure about that?”

“Nope,” he answers honestly, and Nash takes a step back in surprise before grinning again. “It’s my fault, though. Might as well do my best until we figure something else out.” _If we figure something else out. What the hell have you gotten yourself into?_

“Let me know if you need anything, okay?”

"Fuck outta here," the Undertaker snarls.

Nash raises his hands. "Alright, alright. You never saw me." Then he turns and heads down the tunnel, whistling. A few minutes down the way, Seven is washing what’s left of their choppy hair in a frankly enormous mass of bubbles, and humming something nameless and familiar.

By the time the Deadman returns to his living space, the child has made themselves at home, curled up kittenlike on a small corner of the couch. The new sneakers are dangling off their feet, and they’ve decided on jeans and a big flannel shirt.

“Hey,” he says, nudging their silent shoulder, and they wake up instantly, sitting upright and scrambling to put the cushions between them. _What happened to you, kid?_ “You want an actual bed? I’ve got an extra one of those laying around here somewhere.”

The kid nods, still clutching their bundle of dirty clothes. They follow him down the hall to a spare room; it’s small and warm, with bookshelves and even a desk that’s far too tall for the likes of a little one. He gently lifts the bundle from their arms and sets it on the chair, then hoists them carefully into bed by their armpits and slides off their shoes. They must be exhausted, because they’re asleep before he even gets the chance to pull up the blankets.

He just stands there, frozen, for what seems like hours. _What do I do now?_ Kissing them goodnight seems… nah. Finally, he settles on patting their head, and retreats to the couch with a couple of beers and the Rolling Stones on vinyl. He dumps the handful of dirty clothes out on the table next to the washtub, debating whether they should just go straight to the incinerators, when something snags on a hinge – frayed black-and-white edges. He gives it a gentle tug, and out pops a threadbare shred of cloth in a distinctive contrast pattern. He checks the rest of the pockets. It’s the only thing they had with them. It must be important. He smooths it out, trying not to snag any threads on his callused palms, and realizes there’s a few letters embroidered along one edge. _Huh._ He lays it out on the kitchen table, figures he’ll ask them about it in the morning.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> day one of Sev's new life. Taker gets some shitty advice from everyone

the next day.

Living in the Underground means learning to measure time by a whole new set of indicators. The pipes bang at a certain hour as the city above wakes up. There’s a small shuffle as some people drag their exhausted carcasses down the tunnels and back to work. Whatever small remaining animals tuck themselves back into bed at some semblance of sunrise, usually a couple of hours after the last few shouts and screams have faded. There’s a hiss of steam and a flicker in the electricity. Most of its inhabitants only get moving at night, anyway, so things happen when they happen, except for fight nights, which are like actual clockwork.

The Deadman wakes up sometime during the witching hour and realizes he fell asleep in his chair again, a couple of empty beer bottles left on the end table. The battered record player clicks, and it echoes off the ceiling like it’s trying to send a message. He rubs a calloused hand over his face, and decides he might as well make one more pass around the gates before he goes to bed proper. His big boots thump on the dirt and metal and kick up a few splashes and small rocks. It’s close to pitch black, but his eyes are uncanny, and tend to shine a little like a cat’s when he’s wandering.

He rounds the corner and comes face to fucking face with the last person he ever really wants to see: a huge man, bigger than the Deadman even, if a little less powerful. He came here a few months ago, and there’s something about his face that is both soft and eerie behind the mask he wears, patched together from material of uncertain origin with awkward-looking stitches.

“Kane,” he says, tilting his hat.

“Taker,” Kane says, cocking his head. “You feel funny tonight.”

“Well, aw shucks,” the Deadman says, trying not to roll his eyes. “You sure do know how to charm a lady.”

“Shut the fuck up. What are you even doing out here?”

“Makin’ rounds. Why are you in my house, asshole?”

Kane shrugs. “Your gate’s broken.”

“You motherfucker. What’d you go and do that for?”

“Seemed like a good idea at the time.”

The Deadman sighs.

“I’ll fix it before I leave. I dunno, man, this shit just happens. I felt something. Wasn’t right. Thought you might be in trouble.”

“What are you even talking about?” The Deadman knows exactly what he’s talking about.

“You got somebody here with you, man? It feels like there’s somebody here.”

“What are you, the zoning board? What do you care?”

Now it’s Kane’s turn to sigh. “Don’t hide shit from me, okay?”

“Fuck you.”

“Fine.” He scratches the part of his face left exposed by the mask. “Just don’t get into any trouble.”

“Now when on earth have I ever done such a thing, dear brother?”

Kane snorts. “I told you not to call me that. That guy died twenty years ago.”

“I would have murdered your ass by now if we weren’t related. That’s the textbook definition of family, kiddo. Now go fix my damned door.”

“Already on it, boss.” The big red man turns back the way he came. “Be careful.”

“Only you would say such a thing. I’m always careful.”

“Not for you, asshole. For whoever you got back there. I don’t give a fuck if it’s Razor, or Nash, or some woman you picked up even though you look like an old barbecue grill and _smell_ even worse. Watch out for them. They’re not like us.”

The Deadman just smirks, then turns and heads back home. “That gate better be fixed,” he calls over his shoulder. “If I get out here in the morning and it ain’t, I’m gonna beat the tar out of you.”

Silence in response.

“Motherfucker,” he grumbles, and heads back to the main sprawl of his living space. Once back inside, he triple locks the door, and then sets down on the couch to unlace his boots, dumping them next to the chair.

* * *

 

When he wakes up a few hours later, takes a long creaky moment to stretch and then wanders into the room next to his, the kid is gone. Undertaker sucks in a sharp breath, and his mind runs through about a million horrific possibilities. They ran away through the broken fucking gates and now he’s going to start a motherfucking war. They climbed out of something somehow. Somebody figured out they were here and stole them. Either way, somebody’s going to die. He cracks his knuckles and starts formulating an elaborate revenge plan, then pauses. _What the hell happened to you, Taker? It ain’t even been twenty-four hours._

Then he hears a tiny snore, and immediately drops to the ground, knees cracking, and looks under the bed. Nothing. He holds his breath until he hears it again, and realizes it’s coming from a sliver in the open closet door. Easing it carefully open, he finds them asleep, sitting on a pile of shoes and old clothes, hugging a pillow tightly to their chest. They look simultaneously helpless and tiny and fragile and like they might stab someone at a moment’s notice.

He doesn’t wake them this time, just lets the lamp light leak in until their eyelids flutter. When they come to, they suck in a deep breath, and he panics for a brief second before remembering what Nash did the day before and dropping to the floor a safe distance away.

He lets them take a few deep breaths before speaking. “You always sleep like that?”

They nod.

“It would make me feel a lot better if you’d stay in the bed. You don’t have to, but you can.”

Their face opens just the tiniest bit. “I’m staying?”

He shrugs. “If you want to. You’re not in jail. Now c’mon, we gotta eat and then I’ll show you around.”

The unofficial Underground World Tour takes way longer than he imagined; those little legs don’t move so fast, they’re not keen on being carried, and their night vision isn’t as good as his, so they spend a lot of time touching surfaces and crags and manhole covers like that’ll burn it into their memory. Despite their protestations, he just carries them through the worst parts of the Narrows, careful to warn them not to go in there unsupervised anytime soon. Too many places to fall. Too many places where no one can hear you. Too many unexpected dead ends.

They pass out on the couch shortly after returning, and Undertaker gently puts them to bed before grabbing his hat and _moving_ again, coming up topside around the corner from a slow-moving, shine-plated bar front with a handful of black-clad employees inside polishing tables and glassware. The front door opens with a tiny squeak, and the co-owner of the Kliq pops his head up to favor the Deadman with a sneer. He’s not sure he wants to know what it looks like when this guy greets people he _doesn’t_ like.

“The fuck you doing here?” Razor growls, but the veneer doesn’t last long, and he cracks a smile. He’s not a bad guy, not most of the time, just with this weakness for sharp things and pretty girls and uppers. It’s the middle of the afternoon and he looks like he just woke up.

“Where’s Diesel?”

“In the back. What’s it to you?”

“Need to talk to somebody who doesn’t smell like he showers in Brylcreem, alright? Big-boy business.”

Razor smirks. “I know you’re up to something. You’re just lucky I don’t give a shit what it is.” Then he turns to the back. “Diesel! Company! Your fuckboy is here.”

Undertaker seriously considers throttling him, but figures it’s probably not worth the effort. Anyway, in a few seconds Nash is out through the kitchen door, long hair knotted up at the nape of his neck, shop towel slung over his shoulder. He dabs at his face, and jerks his head towards the exit, patting his pockets down in the process before pulling out a cigarette and tucking it behind his ear. Apparently he just can’t get enough of the smell of smoke.

They head out the back door and Nash lights the cigarette, flicking the match away down the alley to hiss in a puddle underneath a leaking pipe. Through the mess of cable and clotheslines tangled between the buildings overhead, the sky is as grey and heavy as ever. Still no rain.

“How’s the kid?”

“Okay. Paranoid.”

“Sounds about right. Glad you ain’t here cause you lost ‘em. What _are_ you doing here?”

The Deadman pulls the scrap of fabric from his pocket. “You know what this is?”

Nash touches it gently with his nonsmoking hand, runs a thumb over the fine threads. “I saw this shit a lot in the Army. Doesn’t necessarily mean anything, but it could make a lot of sense.”

“And the name?”

“Could go either way. I think it’s a last name, but sometimes it’s a girl’s name too. I knew someone like that once.” His eyes go far away, and Undertaker smacks him on the arm, startling him back into reality. “Shit. I dunno. This from the kid, I’m guessing?”

A nod.

“Ask ‘em if they remember anything. Might be their mom’s, or sister’s, or grandmother’s, or they could’ve just found it in the street for all we fuckin’ know.” There’s a crashing sound from inside, and Nash lets out a string of profanity. “I gotta go. Don’t fuckin’ bother me unless something’s on fire. Again.”

* * *

 

When he eases his huge body back through the entrance, the kid is stirring on the couch. He tries to keep his voice soft. “Sev?”

They pull the blanket down a little, dark eyes shining for a brief moment. “Mm?”

“Where’d you come from? Where’s your family?”

They bite their lip and their gaze turns hard. “Gone.”

“Like, they went away?”

A brief head shake. “Gone like those people in the house.”

_Oh shit._

“All of them?”

“All I had was mom left. She was real sick. So she died and I left. Mom always said to keep the door open.”

He’s not sure what that means just yet, but decides not to push it. “Your mom was right.” He pauses for a moment, then sticks his hand into his pants pocket. “Was this hers?”

They nod and reach frantically for the cloth, cradling it in their hands.

“Is that her name?”

“Yeah. Mine too.” Their gaze is long gone now, fixated on the embroidery on the corner of the thin material. “I miss her.” Tears spill down, but there’s no sniffling, no deep breaths. They’re doing their damned best to camouflage, and it makes the Deadman both oddly proud and terrified. _Don’t let them see you sweat, kid. Don’t let them see you._


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Seven discovers the library. Taker discovers... "dad"?

a few months later.

Within three months of their inauspicious arrival in the Underground, Seven has read every book on the Undertaker's limited shelves. Twice. It's like they compensate fourfold for every word that _doesn't_ come out of their mouth. And they write, _christ_ they write, filling up every piece of scrap paper with doodles and lists and sometimes just new words they like repeated over and over until they’re locked-in. He even offered to get them a notebook, but they declined, more than content to pick up and write on everything from candy bar wrappers to the margins of leftover newspaper, all stored in a box they found in a corner of a supply niche that looks like it was meant for fish tackle. They never complain, they never say they’re bored, but they’re shifting piles of books around like a Tower of Hanoi puzzle and it’s making the Deadman develop a bit of a twitch.

And then it hits him one day. _Books._ Suplex City hasn’t been much for funding educational projects in… ever, but he’s pretty sure there’s still one place left that’s downright sacrosanct, no matter what they have to do to keep it in business. No one’s even entirely sure why. And that’s how he and Seven find themselves striding across a defunct-looking square of concrete full of overflowing trash cans, rusted metal, and half-broken war monuments to stand in front of a squat, decidedly unimpressive, municipal-beige building with faded lettering printed across the doors.

_Suplex City Public Library, Plaza Branch_

Seven looks up at him with the biggest eyes he’s ever seen them pull, and some dark corner of his mind makes a firm decision in that moment that he’d punch the ever-loving fuck out of anyone who made them sad. Period. And that possibly no one will ever fuck with the library, ever again.

They’re off like a shot the minute the doors are open, barreling through the shelves in a way that, for them, is downright noisy. They seem to want to touch _everything_ at once and are blown away, amazed by the sights and sounds, even the plastic protective coating on the books under their fingertips and the sickly fluorescent lighting and typewriter-made shelf labels. They’re readily threatening to grab more than they can carry.

When they finally emerge and teeter towards the front desk, a very pretty woman with very dark hair leans on the desk and hits Seven with a dazzling smile. She’s tall, and _strong,_ and Seven can’t look away. “You must be new here.”

The kid nods rapidly, never taking their eyes off the woman’s face. She holds out her hands, and Seven deposits the frankly enormous stack of books they’ve somehow acquired.

“I’m guessing that means you don’t have a library card.” The tall lady’s name tag says _Chyna_ on it, and Seven mouths the word with faint reverence. “Get your dad over here, and he can help you fill out the form.”

Seven glances over their shoulder with abject horror. _Dad? Oh jeez._

Undertaker clenches his fists in his pockets and steps forward. “They don’t have, like, an, um. Birth certificate or anything.”

“Oh, that’s fine,” she says cheerfully. “You know how it is around here.”

 _That I do,_ he thinks, scowling down at the paper like it’s the worst enemy he’s encountered in his long life. He ponders for a slow moment, nearly defeated by the very first blank space, then it clicks. He grabs a nearby ballpoint, clicks that too and, right next to where it says _Name:,_ scrawls _Seven Hanh._

The rest of it goes quickly enough, and within a few minutes, Seven has their card, clutching it in their hands like precious treasure, unwilling to even put it in their pocket. It occurs to the Deadman that it’s basically the only thing they own. The librarian scans the books, and slides them back across the counter. “Now, if you ever need help finding anything, or you’re not sure what to read next, you just ask me, okay?”

“Yes ma’am!” Seven chirps.

“Oh, one more question.” Seven’s eyes get wide, terrified of the possibilities, but the librarian calms them with a gesture. “No pressure. But since this is the last branch left in the city, and there’s a lot of kids around about your age, I was thinking about starting a reading group. Just think about it, and we can talk when you bring these ba—”

“Yes!” Seven blurts. The Undertaker takes a step back, wondering where all this energy came from.

Chyna just laughs. “Great. Like I said, next time I’ll let you know more.”

“Thankyouthankyouthankyou!” Seven all but runs out the door, like that’ll make time pass faster somehow, nearly losing half their books in the process. He takes a big armload for himself, and glances back at Chyna, who winks as they go through the library door.

Seven is a fucking _chatterbox_ when they get back, spreading all the books out across the couch and schooling the Undertaker on the merits of each. They’ve got a thing for confusing-looking young adult literature; the only thing he thinks he recognizes is _The Secret Garden._ There’s a bunch of stuff that’s weirdly survivalist — _My Side of the Mountain, Hatchet._ They’re just talking, and talking, and it should be exhausting but instead it’s fucking glorious, and when they pause for a self-conscious moment, he finds himself blurting out a question he’s been trying real hard to avoid for the past three months: “Sev, what happened to you before? Like, what really happened? Where were you and your mom?”

Their face drops a little but the wave of enthusiasm carries them on its crest and they just shrug. “Long ways from here, in the woods. So I walked.”

“You _walked?”_ He’s pretty sure he knows where they came from now, or at least has a general idea, and it is no easy, or short, trip on any form of transit, let alone for a barefoot, scrawny little kid.

“One time I got a ride. He looked like Santa Claus. He let me keep the door open.”

_Mom always said to keep the door open._

“That was a smart thing to do, punk. Where’s your dad?” _Where’s your brothers and sisters? What was your favorite toy? When’s your birthday?_ He has a thousand questions, but he knows most of them will be met with the same shrug they’re giving him right now.

“Dunno. Can I read now?”

“In a minute.” The Deadman gets to his knees next to the kitchen table and looks right at them. “What do you know, Sev? What do you remember?”

They won’t look at him, so he just waits, even as his knees start to creak and complain. When they finally speak, it’s painfully soft and makes his chest hurt. “Not a lot. Mom. Trees. Everybody was sick. Hungry a lot. I’m sorry.”

“That’s okay. Don’t you fuckin’ forget whatever you’ve got left, alright? I don’t even _remember_ most of what happened when I was… when I was younger. Not really anyone left to talk to about it, either.” He cringes for a second. This is a little bit motivational-speaker for the Deadman, and his voice feels strangely rusty. He adds, “Hey, punk, don’t be _sorry._ It’s okay not to know. You’re little. That’s some scary shit.” An absolutely weird, completely fucking foreign urge starts to bloom in his chest, and even though he’s pretty sure these words have never left his mouth before, let alone in this sequence, he asks, “Do you need a hug?”

They tackle him wordlessly, tightening their arms around his neck, and he scoops them up into the air with ease. It’s never been his job to reassure before, but it seems like the only right thing to do.

What do you do with kids, anyway? Lie to them, tell them it’s gonna be fine when they grow up, that everything’s going to be fair and better and everyone ends up in a better place? That if they do the right thing, everything is okay in the end? Is that why all the stories go “happily ever after”?

That seems naive. Maybe even a little cruel, and not in a fun way — teach a kid that if they do the right thing, the right things will happen to them, and then turn them loose in a world that doesn’t give a single fuck if they live or die because they’re scraps of the whole picture, one step up from invisible if they’re lucky.

 _Nah. Fuck that. World’s a shitty fucking place, kid. I ain’t telling you anything you don’t already know._ But maybe every once in a while there’s a chance to do something different.

And hell, maybe this is it.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Christmas in the Underground, and the first book club meeting. 
> 
> (I'm a sap, okay? You knew that already.)

December.

It’s on one of their trips back to the library that the Deadman realizes Seven’s biggest weakness. They’re taking the long way back through the plaza, the kid bundled up in a huge sweater but refusing to wear boots because they want to feel the snow crunch underneath them before it’s half-melted and filthy with trash. They’re bolting away from him here and there to jump on crunchy-looking piles, tossing the occasional handful in the air and spinning underneath it. It’s the closest thing to “acting their age” he can possibly imagine coming from their tiny but rapidly growing body.

Then it happens. They stop dead and stare. Taker nudges to hurry them along, but they're completely lost to the world, fixed on something outside the plaza that isn’t catching his eye at first. Then he crouches beside them and follows their gaze. _Oh._

In someone's apartment window, many floors up and several blocks away, is a lit-up little tree, barely visible through the steamed-up windows and a twisted, bent set of blinds. Seven is gawking at it breathlessly, hands twisted in the sleeves of the sweater, and the Deadman just ever so gently manages to snag their books before they hit the ground.

"You like Christmas, Sev?"

They nod, still not taking their eyes off the tree. “I think so.”

“You think?” The Deadman gets an idea. “You want to have Christmas?” _Why the fuck not,_ he thinks. _I could do worse than some Charlie Brown shit._

He’s gonna have to call in some favors.

* * *

 

The big day arrives, and the Undertaker has managed to acquire a little glass tree that he sets on the end table. Everything wrapped underneath it is very clearly a book, with one exception that looks like a book but is softer, somehow. It turns out to be a thick, leather-bound journal with a little lock on it. Sev clutches it to their chest, drowning in a giant pair of pajamas, and dashes to their room to hide it away in the nightstand. When they come back, he tilts his head in thought, and gets an idea so stupid, so utterly ridiculous, that he just has to say it out loud.

"Tell you what, kiddo. Since you don't know your birthday, and this is your favorite day, why don't we make today your birthday?"

Seven's eyes widen. "Can we?"

"We can make whatever we want for you. We made your name, right? Why can't we make your birthday? Do you think that’s a good idea?”

The Deadman is still far from a child-rearing expert, but with the help of one very talented reference librarian who gave him _quite_ the stink-eye when he first came to her for parenting advice, he’s pored over a number of tomes on the subject, and has determined that, at their age, kids like Sev need to be able to have both boundaries _and_ the capacity to make their own decisions. Picking a birthday seems as good a time as any.

“Yeah! I think that’s good.”

“Excellent. Well, happy birthday, punk.” He ruffles their hair. “No cake around here, but maybe tomorrow we can try and dig up some doughnuts or something.”

There’s a knock on their front door, and the Undertaker jumps. Who the fuck…?

He peers through the little window and rolls his eyes. “I should have known, you fucker.”

Nash barrels through the door, head brushing the top of the frame, and laughs from deep in his chest. “Like I’m gonna pass up fuckin’ _Christmas,_ you big-ass sack of sap.”

Seven bolts towards him and wraps their arms around his leg. “It’s my birthday too!”

Nash rumples their hair. “Is it, now? I didn’t know!”

“We just decided,” they say firmly, and he nods in very serious agreement.

“Good choice. Even I can’t forget that one.” He shifts a stack of newspaper-wrapped boxes from one hand to the other. “Now, you gonna open these, or am I gonna have to do it myself?”

The first present is a matte-black rectangular… thing, with silver accents. It looks slightly battered but important, somehow, and Seven cocks their head as Nash offers his explanation. “It’s called a Walkman, kid. You can play music on it. I brought you some tapes, too, and I’ll make you some more if you like them. If the old man doesn’t think the shit I listen to will have you doing cocaine and hailing Satan. In a bad way.”

Seven’s not really sure what that means, so they just shrug, and the two men laugh. The tapes are also a little beat-up, and many of them have handwritten labels, and she picks one at random and shoves it in, turning up the sound in the headphones as their mouth pops open at the ruckus coming out. It’s fast, and loud, and it makes them want to dance around the living room.

Diesel’s present for the Deadman turns out to be a bottle of crappy whiskey, and when Undertaker complains that he didn’t get _him_ anything, Nash grins. “I’m drinking half of this shit anyway, so get the fucking cups out, man.” They drink out of chipped coffee mugs, telling old bullshit stories and punching each other in the arm while Seven spins around and jumps up and down to what sounds faintly like Black Sabbath and the pipes in the ceiling crackle and groan.

It’s the best Christmas any of them can remember.

After Nash finally takes his wobbly, drunken leave, giving Sev a loud _smooch_ on the top of their head that turns them about five shades of purple, the Deadman turns to the kid, who is already yawning. "Happy birthday, Seven. Or should I call you Eight now?" He can't help himself, especially with how peeved they look.

"That's not my name, _dad,"_ they huff, curling up into a tiny ball underneath the tree. Undertaker jolts at that, even as it rolls out of their mouth with the best version of sarcasm that a seven-year-old (or rather, a newly minted eight-year-old) can offer.

A little while later, after Seven falls asleep next to the pile of newspaper and has to be carried to bed while they grouse all the while, there is very little rest for the Deadman.

 _Dad_.

"That's fucking weird," he grumbles, cracking a beer in one gigantic hand while the other scoops up the crumpled paper and dumps it into the trash. But whatever his brain's version of old home movies is has already crackled to life and begun to spool slowly around. His own parents. The family home. The lawn and the bikes and the kitchen table. The business. His brother. They were all gone. Long gone, ghosts wandering the long-empty halls. Nothing bringing them back. Nothing taking them away, either. He lets it all burn up in his mind like nitrate, sticky and combustible under pressure, cigarette ash pouring open into flame. It all burns if you let it sit long enough.

Undertaker finds himself wondering if Seven thinks about those things, about the parents and home and whatever else he thinks they might have had. They don't seem to remember most of it.

How did they even make it this far on their own? How did they ever survive the fire, let alone the months or even years before? How could any kid have possibly gotten all the way here, of all fucking places on earth? Let alone this tiny, half-starved, flea-ridden thing just ripe for the picking for any sick fuck who happened to wander by.

But then he thinks, don’t sell ‘em short. That kid lived. That kid _lived._ They got up from their cashed-out old life and they fuckin’ walked and they fuckin’ lived.

In the room down the hall, Seven scribbles carefully in their new diary before shutting it in the nightstand drawer and closing their eyes.

_Today was my birthday. We decided. I think I want to be like dad someday. He's scary, so everyone leaves him alone, and they don't know that he's actually nice, at least to me. That sounds like a good thing. And maybe he is really scary. Maybe he could be. Maybe I could be, when I grow up._

An hour and several beers later, the Deadman is feeling dangerously ambitious, and he’s pacing the tunnels of the Underground, scuffing puddles underneath his boots. He drains the last bottle and chucks it against the wall, the sound of shattered glass ringing obnoxiously off the rock and metal. He stops and reaches up, bracing a hand on the ceiling, and hears something - glass in a way that it shouldn’t be. Glass on something soft.

“You stupid son of a bitch,” he growls. “Of course you fuckin’ show up today.”

“Well, Merry Christmas to you too, big brother.” Kane rolls his eyes. “Sounds like all you got under the tree was four sheets to the wind.”

“Stay the fuck away from me.” The Deadman lurches and leans against the wall. He’s more than a little dizzy and he didn’t entirely get that way from whiskey and Budweiser.

“What, you think I’m gonna fuck with your _kid_ now?” Kane rolls his eyes again. It’s a family trait. “I just wanna be left alone, same as you.”

“Get out of my fucking face,” the Undertaker hisses, feeling like he might just puke on his estranged sibling’s shoes as a great way of ending this alleged discussion. “Fuck outta here, period. I don’t want to see you around here anymore.”

“Yeah? Where am I gonna go? Upstairs? Shit’s way too flammable. And you think nobody in your little Sociopaths Anonymous group would notice?”

Just like that, he’s gone, and the Deadman half wonders if he was ever even there in the first place. Another day, not trying, as he stumbles home.

* * *

 

When Seven shows up in the new year for their first book club, a “bring your favorites” affair, they’ve got a copy of _Bunnicula_ tucked under their arm, right next to _Fahrenheit 451._ They couldn’t bring themselves to choose, which isn’t surprising. What does surprise them is that there are other kids there, kids their _age_ even, chatting quietly in small groups, and they stand awkwardly in the middle before Ms. Chyna greets them with a smile and offers them a seat in the circle of chairs and cushions. Everyone goes around and introduces themselves. Seven forgets most of their names immediately, zeroing in on features instead - a scrawny redhead with a wavy fringe; a boy with long dark hair and dark circles under his eyes and the weight of the world on his shoulders; a blonde who sits primly in her seat, hands carefully folded, clips sparkling in her perfect hair; a young brunette with a ponytail who seems _way_ too excited about literally everything that’s happening; a boy with a crewcut whose face says _angry_ and whose eyes say _scared;_ another redhead in a hole-filled t-shirt with scrapes through the gashes in his jeans.

Seven realizes they’re looking at them. _Shit._

“Sev, do you wanna introduce yourself?”

 _Not a chance in hell,_ they think, but they know it’s not a real question and swallow hard. “Um. I’m… I’m Seven. I… I live in the Underground with my dad. I like books. Especially scary ones. And, um. And Judas Priest?”

Somebody giggles, and Seven flinches until one of the redheads interjects, “Dude, that’s _awesome!”_

There’s one more girl left in the room, a _third_ redhead, and she’s like nothing Seven has ever seen before in all their eight years. When she speaks, her voice is like something out of a fairy tale, and her long, braided hair only enforces the image. When she introduces herself, and Sev promises they _will_ remember Becky’s name until the day they die, she’s got an accent Seven’s never heard before, and eyes straight from heaven, and it makes Sev’s heart pound in their chest. _Is this what that’s like?_

Two hours later, Seven’s throat hurts from talking and they’re not even totally sure what _about._ Their dad is nice. Diesel is nice. Some of the other adults are okay; hell, Ms. Chyna is the best there ever was and the best there ever will be. But this? This feels like a long-lost piece that’s finally clicked into place.

“I’m so glad you’re making friends, Sev,” Ms. Chyna beams, and Sev gasps. Friends! That’s what this is! People their own age that they like to talk to about stuff! Friends! Most of the other kids seem similarly excited, except the angry one, who doesn’t look like he gets excited about anything at all, and they hog up the beanbags and armchairs bickering for ages before promising to meet at the same time next week.

The other kids scatter, but they hang out a little too long after that day and Chyna gives them a lingering glance. “What’s up, Sev? Question?”

They nod, eager for the opening. “Ms. Chyna, how did you know whether you were a boy or a girl?”

“Huh. Well, for me, my mom and dad told me I was a girl, and I never had any reason to think otherwise. Do _you_ think… otherwise?” Good job, she mentally chastised herself. Real genius work.

“I don’t know? I don’t remember what my mom said I was, and my dad never calls me either one.”

Huh. “Well that’s okay,” she says. “A bit unusual, but okay. Do you think you’re a boy or a girl?”

“I thought I did when I was little. I thought I was a boy. But now I don’t know.”

Chyna nods. “That’s okay, too. That’s actually very normal for your age - being a boy or a girl or a none-of-your-business.” Seven giggles at that. “I can’t say for sure how it’ll all turn out, but it’s okay to give it time if you want to. And I bet your dad will support you in whatever you decide.”

“Oh, I’m pretty sure my dad doesn’t give a shit,” Sev beams.

“Language!”

The kid giggles again.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ten years old, getting a little too involved in local politics

ten.

The Deadman never actually spent a second of his previous adult life even considering the possibility of parenting, so the idea that he might, over the course of time, turn into someone who was strict about, of all the random things, _bedtime_ is one that makes him laugh a little behind the stern face he puts on.

"C'mon, Sev. It's late. I gotta go, and that means you gotta sleep."

They’ve got that signature kid-mope down pat to the point where it actually almost works. "I'm not tired! Why can't I stay up and read?"

Almost. "Because I said so, punk."

" _You_ don't have to go to sleep."

He yawns. "Yeah, cause I gotta _work_."

Work for the Deadman means a lot of things, namely trying to make sure nobody dies unless they’re supposed to. This is largely accomplished by the movement, or lack thereof, of what some joker nicknamed the Ministry of Darkness but what he thinks of simply as a council — the confusing array of semi-permanent preternaturals who call the deeper parts of the Underground their home away from, well, everything else. Apparently drawn by whatever it was he put out into the universe, they’d shown up in trickles over the years, eventually settling on a loose coalition that agreed on a few basic rules — no guns, no cops, no drugs — and were otherwise quite content to be amused by the antics of the more-humans and left to their own devices, as long as all havoc was wreaked far from the city and, more importantly, its tunnels.

They came from everywhere, but Suplex City is the safe home base, untouchable because of its bare existence, long since abandoned and gone to rust and tarnish. They kept the lights on. They kept enough movement to avoid suspicion but not enough to draw attention. They ran out in the world, but the Underground became where they rest their heads.

Some come with superpowers. All come with strings attached.

Today they’re debating the presence of the newest proposed member, a seemingly ageless leader with frighteningly blue eyes and venom in his smile. He’s powerful, there’s no doubt about that, and certainly more than charming, and his accompanying flock brings a clever brute strength that they could surely use for enforcement purposes.

Other things have been trickling in lately, things the Deadman doesn’t like - junk, for one. An awful lot of knives, for another. The new guy doesn’t like them either. That’s promising, although they’re pretty sure his disdain for weapons is because he could just talk someone into throwing themselves off a cliff instead.

_!!!!!_

What the fuck. Undertaker jerks his head to the side. If he didn't know any better, he would have thought he heard something.

"Are we boring you, sir?" The Empress's voice is just over the edge of insubordinate. She's very smart, and very sharp, and that tone alone could bleed a man out. The Deadman likes that about her.

“Yeah, what the fuck is your problem?” snarls the one with sharpened fangs who fancies himself a real ladykiller. The Deadman isn’t so sure about the literalness of that statement. He’s been trying to impress the Empress ever since she arrived, to everyone’s amusement.

There's a low growl from the dark far corner, and the creak of a rocking chair.

The Undertaker ignores them all.

Then he hears it again, and this time _knows._ "Huh. That's new."

_Dad! Dad!!_

The Empress cocks her head.

"I gotta take a call. Carry on without me for a few." He stands up abruptly, cracks his neck, and pushes his way towards the exit.

_SEV. WHAT ARE YOU -?_

_there's someone ?here? I'm scared dad please screaming he's screaming_

The Deadman pauses with one hand on the door. There’s a faint scraping sound coming from somewhere nearby, accompanied by a terrifying, high-pitched whine.

_I HEAR IT. STAY DOWN._

Seven accidentally bangs their head on the underside of a rock and has to bite their hand to keep silent. Sneaking out of bed was, they decide, not the best idea they’ve ever had. It was all fun and games up until they turned a corner and realized they weren’t the only one following. Someone they’ve never seen before, a hunched-over man in a white shirt, is stumbling down the hall just ahead of them. They slow their steps, but in the process trip, and the scuff of their sneakers is all the man needs. He whips around, lightning-quick, and at the sight of the leather mask over his facial features, Seven inhales their screams before they can escape and _runs,_ ducking off into a side tunnel that leads to the boiler room before realizing it’s a dead end.

His steps towards them through the steam are slow and deliberate, like they’re being hunted, and then the screaming starts, spit drooling through the mask and flecking onto both their clothes even as Seven ducks under the ledge to cover themselves. He’s like a feral thing, like he’s not even fully aware of the noise he makes, and sometimes it sounds an awful lot like human words. Seven’s not really sure why they started _thinking,_ but it seemed like the only thing to do - like somehow, someway, the man who feeds them and keeps them safe would know, of course he would know, of course he can make this right _dad dad please where are you —_

“I’ll fucking kill you.” The Deadman’s snarl comes out astonishingly pleasant, like he’s narrating a nature documentary about birds. “Touch my kid, you stupid fuck.”

The man just shrieks again, ear-splitting, even as he’s being hoisted into the air and slammed into the wall. But his voice is muffled and pained and Seven hates it and before they can stop themselves they’re covering their ears and begging the Deadman to put him back. “Stop, please, just stop it, stop it,” with no idea who they’re actually speaking to, and suddenly everything goes silent. No one moves. The stranger takes a deep, heaving breath, and collapses to his knees. When he’s holding still he’s not nearly as scary, although the missing ear is a bit of a heart-stopper. They stay out of biting distance, examining his face, and realize that his mask is crooked, crushing his features.

“Can you even breathe in that thing?” they ask, and the man just stares back, thousand-yard and thoughtless. Seven reaches out a hand, and he jerks back, but the Undertaker grips his shoulders firmly and the man goes limp. They lean a little closer and realize he’s bleeding from the chafing. “Do you want me to take it off?”

He shakes his head violently back and forth, and the Undertaker’s hands tighten again until he stills. Seven nods, reaching in their pocket for the scrap of fabric that’s always been there, and reaches forward slowly, so slowly, until they can dab a little at the mess. Then they carefully touch the edge of the mask, working their fingers under the seams, tugging on the stained leather and rusted metal, trying to bring it to some sort of center. When they’re finally as satisfied as they’re going to get with the results, they gently pat the mask with both hands, and step back, shoving the damp and bloody cloth back where it belongs.

The man inhales through his teeth, and his shoulders tense. “Thank you,” he says, in a voice rusty from disuse. Then he stands up, straightens his tie, and winks before skulking off into the darkness.

The Deadman is baffled by a lot of things right now — where the man came from, how on earth he found his way this far back in the Narrows — not the least of which is how fucking _calm_ his kid is being in the face of this actual slavering maniac. “Come on,” he says, grabbing Seven’s wrist and guiding them down the tunnels. Fuck the council. They’ll keep arguing with or without him. Right now he’s pissed, and scared, and a lot of other emotions that he can’t quite place.

“Where are we going?” they ask quietly, moving cat-like behind their dad.

“If you’re not going to stay in the house where it’s safe, I’m going to show you what you think you’re missing.”

And with that, he’s just gone, leaving them to peer out from behind a big stalagmite as he talks to several strange men gathered in a clump off to one side of a huge room she remembers from her first day. Their eyes adjust faster than they used to, and they realize there’s dozens of people quietly gathered around. Hundreds, even. They’re all peering down into one of the pits in the floor. It’s suffocatingly, unbearably hot, and everyone is sweating. Then there’s a shout, and some sort of banging sound, and everyone is shouting back. Seven feels themself wobble and realizes their dad has ducked under and put them up on his shoulders.

“Watch,” he says quietly.

“Why?” they ask, still confused by the chaos beginning to unfold.

“A lot of reasons, punk. Boredom, mostly. But people like to think they’re earning their keep. That they gotta impress me to be able to stay. And maybe sometimes they do. Maybe they do. But they don’t even fuckin’ know who I am.”

They peer over the heads, nearly nine feet of combined height allowing them to see into the pit everyone has circled around. There’s a man in there. There’s _two_ men in there. And they appear to be murdering each other. They suck in a breath.

“Hey, hey, it’s okay,” he mutters. “Nobody dies, okay?”

“Why?” they ask again, but their eyes are wide and they can’t look away.

“Dunno. People are weird, kid. They feel better when they got someone to answer to.”

“But aren’t you a people?”

He chuckles, and his eyes glow a little. “Dunno.”


End file.
